I pick up my fork, push the eggs around. They’re perfect, the way she’s always made them—fluffy, with just a little cheese. My childhood breakfast. But they taste like nothing. “I told Natalie I loved her.”
Mom is quiet. Waiting.
“Valentine’s Day. I cooked dinner, finished the nursery. I had this whole plan.” The words feel heavy in my mouth. “I proposed to her. Had a ring. I asked her to move in with me. Told her I wanted us to be a real family.”
“What did she say?”
“She said she needed space.” I set the fork down. “It’s been a week. Haven’t heard from her since.”
“Have you tried calling?”
“She asked for space. I’m giving her space.”
“Jake—”
“What am I supposed to do?” My voice comes out sharper than I intend. “Chase after her? Beg? I put myself out there. I told her everything. And she walked out.”
Mom is quiet for a long moment, her hands wrappedaround her mug. Outside, a cardinal lands on the bird feeder, a shock of red against the gray morning.
“You know what I remember most about your father?” she says finally.
The shift catches me off guard. “What?”
“How patient he was. When we first started dating, I was terrified. I’d been hurt before, badly, and I kept waiting for him to prove he was just like the others.” She looks at me. “He didn’t push. He just showed up. Every day. Until I finally believed him.”
“Natalie’s not going to believe me, Mom. She’s convinced everyone leaves. And now I pushed too hard and she ran.”
“Did you push too hard? Or did you just finally tell her the truth?”
I don’t have an answer for that.
“She’s having my daughter in less than a month,” I say quietly. “And I’m in love with her. Not just because of the baby. Because of her.” My throat tightens.
“But I can’t make her love me back. I can’t make her trust me. And I’m terrified that I’m going to spend the rest of my life co-parenting with a woman I’m in love with, watching her eventually find someone else. Some guy who she’ll let in because enough time has passed and she’s not scared anymore. And my daughter will have a stepfather who gets to be there for all of it while I’m just the every-other-weekend dad who?—”
I have to stop. The words are choking me.
My chest feels tight, like there’s a weight pressing down on my ribs. I stand abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. The kitchen walls feel like they’re closing in.
I pace to the window, back to the table, my hands clenching and unclenching at my sides. Everything inside me is chaos. Thoughts crashing into each other, none of them making sense, all of them leading back to the same place.
Natalie walking out. The door closing. The silence.
I press the heel of my hand against my chest, trying to ease the pressure there. It doesn’t help.
Mom reaches across the table, but I’m already moving, needing space, needing air. “You’re not going to be the every-other-weekend dad. You’re already not that. You’re building a nursery, showing up for appointments, learning how to love your baby’s mother.”
“But what if it’s not enough? What if I do everything right and she still won’t let me in?”
“Then you love your daughter and you keep showing up for Natalie anyway. Not because you expect something back, but because that’s what love is. It’s showing up even when it’s hard.”
“I don’t know if I can do that. Watch her live her life without me in it. Not the way I want it to be.”
“You’re stronger than you think.”
“I don’t feel strong. I feel like I’m barely holding it together.”
The words come out rough, scraped raw. I can’t breathe. I need to get out of this house.
